ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴇʀ

Six | ʟɪᴀᴍ

Liam watched in silence as Rose Sinclair stalked out of his study, leaving him alone with her curt parting words and floral scent.

Volatile lass. Too smart for her own good. Full of spirit and gumption. Just as Clementine had been.

Removing his hands from his pockets, Liam picked up the small framed photograph that lay face down on the surface of his desk. The photograph Miss Sinclair had asked after. He'd told her the truth. Yes, he had a sister. But no, the woman featured in the photo was not her. It was Clementine.

Clementine Rothschild. Clementine Mercer. His wife. Late wife. Dead for more than a year.

He smoothed his thumb across the tiny image of her face, a heavy ache in his chest.  She'd told him their marriage would be contested. She'd told him being with her would break his heart. And it had. But not in the way Clementine had predicted. Not because of the opposition of their very different families, but because of a bullet. A bullet meant for him.

The Rothschild family was peerage. Old money. They'd been horrified at the prospect of their darling only daughter marrying a known racketeer and gangster. Clementine's mother, especially, had done everything in her power to see the wedding derailed. But Clem had refused to be swayed. She'd been steadfast. Resolute. Devoted to Liam. A devotion that had ultimately cost Clementine her life.

Liam still grieved. He knew he always would.

And he knew that, just as Clementine's family had in the beginning, Rose Sinclair would undoubtedly cause him a wealth of fucking trouble.

Liam sighed and set the photograph down. When he'd first heard Miss Sinclair speaking in the foyer with Eleanor, he would have bet his fortune it had been Clementine's voice resonating through the house. That posh, sophisticated accent. That well-educated turn of phrase. He'd left his study to investigate, and seeing her in the flesh was just as shocking as hearing her speak. The blonde hair, arranged in tidy pin curls. A blue dress that managed to be both modest and stylish. That constant hint of a smile, even when she was serious or perturbed... She could've been Clementine's younger sister.

“Why is it always the pretty blonde ones that try to fuck up me life?” he asked the empty room.

Kneeling, he retrieved Miss Sinclair's handkerchief where it had fallen on the floor when she'd abruptly stood. With a nimble touch, he unfolded it, taking in the dainty lace edges and delicate embroidery. He held it close to his nose and inhaled. Yes, it smelled like her. Sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. Feminine soap and light floral perfume. Breathing in, he allowed his eyes to close for a few stolen seconds.

He tucked the handkerchief into the lapel pocket of his suit jacket. She would want it back.

The discarded teacup and saucer laid on the floor, further casualties of Miss Sinclair's outburst. Spilled tea dampened the area rug. Eleanor would not be pleased.